Breathe
by ManticoreC
Summary: A brief moment between Spike & Buffy in S.6. Post-Wrecked, pre-Dead Things. Just a short one-off piece.


So, I know I should be working on the next chapter of Storm Warning, but it's been a pretty horrendous weekend, and it just wasn't happening. This kinda happened instead. 

Timing: Sometime in season 6. Post-Gone, pre-Dead Things.

Disclaimers: All Buffy characters belong to Joss Whedon/Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox.

* * *

**Breathe**

The only sound was the sound of breathing. Her breathing. She listened to it, concentrated solely on the feel of it. In. Out. It reminded her that she was alive. In. Out. There was movement, sound, a brush of leather across her skin as a figure crouched down next to her. _Spike, _she thought. 

"Buffy," he asked bemusedly, "what are you doing?" She seemed to be taking a nap. - in the graveyard - in the middle of the night.

"Breathing," she answered shortly.

Spike sighed, exasperated and confused and concerned, all at the same time. His voice betrayed it, but then it always did. "Buffy…Slayer. I can see that. What are you doin' lyin' here?" He glanced around, staring out into the darkened graveyard. Nothing there. "Unless you want company…" His voice trailed off suggestively, and he ran a single finger over her exposed shoulder, remembering. He expected anger, a punch, certainly a verbal assault if not a physical one. He was unprepared when she whimpered. "Buffy?" He wasn't sure he'd heard it, or that it was what he thought it was. He'd never heard her make a sound like that.

Buffy continued to breathe. Spike's face was suddenly before hers, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. She wondered why he was breathing – it seemed so difficult – why would anyone bother who didn't have to? 

"Buffy, where are you hurt?" 

"Spike." Buffy could see his eyes were full of fear. She wondered what had scared him. "Everywhere hurts." She ached, body and soul.

"What happened?" He was fighting the urge to run his hands all over her, to find out where she was injured, to assure himself that she was okay. 

"There was a big, ugly demon." It hurt to speak. "It hit me. Hard. Ran away." She looked confused. "I think."

"Well, it's not here now." Spike touched her face. "Buffy, what do you want to do?" He waited, but she didn't answer, just kept breathing. He rose from his crouch and stared down at her. She was curled slightly on her side, and her skin was pale. Looking down at her, so still and wan, he was terrified. He'd never seen her like this before. "That's it, I'm taking you home." 

"No! Spike, I can't..." She struggled to rise, her face clenched from the effort. She couldn't face it now, couldn't face them. It was too hard, they'd smother her with their concern, they'd drown her in it. "I can't deal with them now." He was back beside her, one arm curving around her shoulders to support her as she sat up.

"Buffy, love. Stop." He could feel her heart beating, feel the blood pulsing under her skin, could almost taste her pain. "Just stop moving." She continued to struggle, trying to pull away from him. "I promise not to take you home, if you just stop moving." His voice was soft, and frantic with worry. "Buffy…"

Buffy stopped. It just hurt too damn much. She leaned back against Spike's arm, coming out of the half daze she'd been in. The sharp stabs of pain from her ribs had accomplished that. She knew she'd been hurt worse than this before, knew that in the grand scheme of things a couple of broken ribs weren't the end of the world. It was just too much, on top of everything else. "I'm okay," she lied. "Really, just give me a minute and I'll be good as new." She dragged a watered down version of her 'happy-everything's-okay-Buffy' smile from somewhere and offered it to him.

"Bollocks! You're bloody battered, Slayer. You can't hardly even sit up." Spike watched as the pathetic excuse for a smile disappeared, the pinched grimace of pain returning. "Let me take you home." 

"No." Very definite.

He knew that tone, knew there was no use arguing with it. "Well, what are you gonna do then? Lie back down here and wait for another big nasty to come and get a bite of the Slayer?"

"Yes." Not so certain this time.

"Well…." He hesitated, knew she didn't want to be near him. But she was still leaning against him, so maybe just this once she'd listen to sense. "What about my place?"

Buffy tensed, and then winced when her abused body sent more stabs of pain to tell her that this was a Bad Idea. It wasn't the only bad idea. Going to Spike's definitely fell into that category. But…"Haven't got a choice, do I?" she asked, resignedly.

"Not really, love. Not unless you fancy wandering on over to Willy's and asking if you can stay there." He was astonished. She was going to let him help her, to look after her. Him, not her precious, poncy Scoobies. Him. 

"Ha ha. So not funny. Now help me up."

"I don't think so, love. You're not walking anywhere like that."

She glared at him and discovered it wasn't as effective when delivered from a range of a few inches. "What're you going to do, carry me?"

"Exactly." 

"You are not carrying me anywhere, Spike." She was suddenly furious, at herself for being so weak, for needing, no…for _wanting_ to rely on him. At him, for being there to rely on. Her anger carried her past the pain and she surged upwards, away from the curiously reassuring arm, away from his too close face. Well, that was the idea, anyway. She made it about halfway up, and her body just crumpled. Too much pain, too much strain, too many sleepless nights. She would have hit the ground, hard, but Spike was there, gently supporting her, holding her up. Not saying a word, but his silence spoke volumes. 

"Fine." Her tone dared him to make a smart-ass comment.

Spike smothered a grin before it reached his face – she'd kill him if she thought he was laughing at her. He was still worried, but his terror was gone. It was her stillness that had scared him, her lack of reaction. But now he'd seen a flash of that Buffy fire he loved so much, he knew she'd be okay. He shifted his supporting arm lower on her back and slid his other arm behind her knees, cradling her to his chest. Trying to be gentle, knowing by her breathing that he'd hurt her, he stood up. "Sorry, love."

A small "s'okay" was all the response he got. He walked through the silent graveyard with the Slayer in his arms. 

Buffy was trying to hold herself away from him, to remain aloof. This was embarrassing, and she hurt a lot, but there was something pleasant about letting him carry her. _I must have got clonked in the head as well_, she thought.

Neither of them said anything. As they neared Spike's crypt, Buffy allowed her head to rest against his chest. It was too hard to hold it up. She needed all her energy to concentrate on breathing.

* * *

Spike settled Buffy gently onto his bed, trying not to jar her. He knew the trip down the ladder had hurt; he'd felt her bite back a gasp of pain. 

"Now love, we're gonna have to do something about those ribs," he said, stripping off his jacket and slinging it over a rung of the ladder. She was holding herself stiff on the bed, refusing to look at him. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You know, I'm not gonna jump your bones." Suddenly he grinned. "Not until you're feeling better, anyway."

It had exactly the effect he was looking for. Buffy's head whipped around and she glared at him. "You never change, do you?" she asked, exasperated, but relaxing at the familiar banter. 

"Nope." He continued to look down at her, trying to look firm, trying to suppress his smile. It wasn't easy – seeing her lying in his bed, it kept sneaking back. "If your ribs are broken, they've got t'be wrapped."

She knew this was sensible, necessary, but it still shocked her to hear sensible things from Spike. Buffy nodded, and sat up. She reached for her shirt hem, ignoring the stab of pain her movement caused. Spike was there, taking the hem from her hands, pushing them away. "Slayer." He hesitated, and Buffy looked away, suddenly shy. 

It was bizarre, all the things they'd done with each other, to each other, and this felt too intimate. 

Spike watched her. It was like he could read her mind sometimes. He knew what she was thinking, had felt her heart speed up when he'd touched her. "Buffy, let me help." She looked away, but raised her arms. Spike carefully skimmed her shirt off over her head. He felt his body tighten in reaction, and bit back an involuntary intake of breath. He'd seen her naked, spread beneath him, knew every inch of her body, but this was different. Unable to resist, he pressed his palm against the side of her face, then let his fingertips trail down her neck, over her shoulder and down her arm, covering her hand with his own. 

Buffy shivered at the feel. She wanted to throw his hand off, to cut him down with words and fists. She couldn't handle this gentleness. She needed the violence, the sex, as a wall against the world. Whenever Spike tried to be gentle with her she goaded him, taunted him until he snapped back at her. She didn't have the energy tonight, and she didn't have the will. 

Spike turned away, balling her shirt up between his hands. "I've got bandages, pet. I'll just go n' get them." He strode over to the shelves where a shiny, new first aid kit rested, and pulled out a rolled cloth bandage. Returning to the bed, he settled on the edge, one knee tucked underneath him, and placed the bandage and Buffy's shirt beside him. "Can you hold your arms out?" He was taking refuge in mundane inanities. Buffy complied, and he began to wrap the bandage around her torso. 

Buffy closed her eyes, and concentrated on keeping her arms away from her body. Each brush of his hand against her skin was like a shock, radiating out from the point of contact. Seeking distraction, she asked, "Why do you have a first aid kit?"

Spike looked embarrassed at that, but replied, "Well, love. I got it for you." He paused. Buffy's eyes slid open. "Just in case." He didn't say anything more, just kept unwinding the bandage, snugging it against her ribs, but he didn't have to. It summed up their relationship perfectly. For most people, safe sex didn't mean having access to a first aid kit.

Spike finished, and tucked the loose end underneath, securing the bandage. "All done, pet." He watched as Buffy took an experimental breath. "Better?"

She nodded, and reached for her shirt. It was easier to breathe. She could feel the support the bandage offered with each breath, feel it holding her ribs in place. 

Spike watched as she carefully pulled her shirt on. He expected her to leave now that she was patched up, but she sat in the middle of his bed, looking uncertain. As she began to slide over to the edge, he said, "Stay."

"What?"

"Why don't you stay, just for a bit?" 

Spike wasn't looking at her now. Buffy hesitated, and then slid back, leaning against the headboard. She didn't want to go home, not yet. She'd stay, just for a bit, just until it got too uncomfortable. 

Spike felt her move, turned to look at her questioningly. She nodded in response. He kicked off his boots and settled next to her. Buffy racked her brain for something to say, to fill the silence, but she couldn't think of a single thing. The silence stretched out, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was a heavy silence, weighted with everything unsaid between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Buffy felt her eyelids getting heavy. 

Spike watched her, listened to her heartbeat slow. He held himself carefully, poised in absolute stillness, unwilling to do anything to disturb her as she relaxed into sleep. 

* * *

Spike reclined on the bed, his head resting on one arm, and watched Buffy sleep. Her breathing was still shallow, but it was obvious she was healing already. The only sound in the crypt was the sound of her breathing – the sound of life. She was curled on her side facing away from him. But, deep in sleep, she had pressed herself into the curve of his body, as if seeking solace in his presence. One hand was flung out in front of her, the other resting on her hip, palm up. Spike reached out and slid his hand into hers, smiling when her fingers curled around his own.

Spike knew that she would wake, and flee his presence. Just as he knew that she would come back to him, but not for this - not for this stillness, this peace.

In this moment, he was content. It made him hope that the future could hold something other than their desperate, violent encounters. Something gentle. Something real. 

* * *


End file.
